Secret Archives of Sherlock Holmes, The, The (12 page)

‘What do you know about Wales?’ Holmes inquired one morning, looking up from the letter he had been reading.

‘Whales?’ I inquired, misunderstanding his question. ‘Not a great deal, Holmes, except they are large sea mammals which are hunted for their blubber and are—’

I broke off as he burst out laughing.

‘No, not whales, my dear fellow! I am referring to the principality to the west of England. W-A-L-E-S.’

I joined in the laughter for, although I was a little piqued at his amusement at my quite understandable mistake, I was also secretly relieved that Holmes had shown so positive a reaction. For the past few days, he had been in a very low state of mind brought on by the lack of any interesting investigations to stimulate his intellectual powers. I knew from experience that this could be a dangerous situation. Despite my best
efforts to wean him off the habit, I was aware that he still occasionally indulged in the use of cocaine when, as he himself expressed it, he was feeling the ‘insufferable fatigues of idleness’.
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The only antidote to this state of affairs, apart from an injection of the drug, was some new and challenging inquiry on which he could hone his unique skills.

‘I am afraid I know very little either about Wales,’ I replied, ‘except it is well known for coal mining and male voice choirs. But what on earth prompted the question?’

‘This letter,’ he replied, flapping a sheet of paper in my direction. ‘Rather than read it to you, I will summarise its contents as it is rather garrulous in places. It is from a certain Dr Gwyn Parry, the general practitioner in a village called Pentre Mawr – at least, I assume that is how it is pronounced – who requests my assistance in what he refers to as “a deeply tragic situation”. It appears a patient of his, a local farmer called …’ and here Holmes glanced briefly at the missive, ‘Dai Morgan was stabbed to death two days ago at his farm. His son, Hywel, has been arrested for his murder and is at present languishing in Abergavenny gaol awaiting trial.

‘Dr Parry was evidently called to the scene of the crime by Hywel Morgan, who found the body of his
father and it was Parry who made an initial examination of the victim. According to him, and here I quote his very words, “Hywel is a hard-working, God-fearing young man, who is incapable of such a dreadful act of patricide.” Dr Parry, it seems, delivered Hywel as a baby, and therefore claims he knows him very well, although I am not sure that the logic of such an assertion would stand up to close cross-questioning in a murder trial. So what do you think, Watson? Shall I accept the good doctor’s invitation and investigate the case?’

I was considerably flattered by Holmes’ request for my advice; it was not often he asked for help over any matter that touched on his professional life, although I knew in this particular instance that he had no cases on hand and was consequently at a loose end, a state of affairs which left him bored and restless. A trip to Wales might well alleviate that tedium and raise his spirits.

I was therefore quick to agree. Apart from the matter of Holmes’ needs, the idea also appealed to me from an entirely selfish point of view, for the prospect of sharing lodgings with a morose and unsociable companion for an uncertain period of time was far from alluring.

‘Why not, Holmes?’ I replied. ‘I have never been to Wales. It would make a change from London, would it not?’

‘I suppose so,’ Holmes replied, but only half-heartedly. ‘Oh, very well, then, Wales it shall be, although I have serious doubts about the location of the inquiry. A farm
in the Welsh countryside hardly seems to hold out much promise of excitement. One can only hope there are not too many cows. They are the most boring of animals in my opinion – worse even than sheep. And I should warn you, Watson, the journey is going to be tedious in the extreme. According to the itinerary Dr Parry has given us, there are two changes of train, one at Hereford of all places.’

Nevertheless, he sent the telegram to Dr Parry confirming our arrival and the following day we set off from Paddington for Abergavenny, a journey that was indeed long but not as tedious as Holmes had predicted. He was, however, still in a dispirited frame of mind and refused to be diverted by the passing scenery, sinking instead into a heavy silence, the flaps of his deerstalker cap pulled down about his ears. I greatly missed his sprightly conversation on a variety of topics that had entertained me on similar train journeys in the past.

It was only after we had changed at Hereford, a charming town as far as I could judge from the carriage window and not in the least deserving of Holmes’ rather dismissive comment on it, that he began to sit up and take notice of the names of the stations we were passing through.

‘An interesting language, Welsh,’ he commented. ‘It is, of course, Celtic in origin and is said by some scholars to have its roots in the ancient British tongue spoken by
the inhabitants of this island before it was overrun by the Anglo-Saxons.’

And with that, to my infinite relief, he plunged into a fascinating discourse on the influence of
Indo-European
, the protolanguage from which, it seemed, a great number of other languages, including Celtic, had sprung. This explanation continued until our arrival at Abergavenny where we were met by Dr Gwyn Parry, an eager-looking little man, short of stature but brimming over with energy that seemed to set the air about him crackling with an electric charge. Even the weather seemed affected by him, for the low clouds which had persisted for most of the day began to scatter, torn to tatters by a sharp little breeze. By the time we had left the outskirts of Abergavenny and were proceeding at a brisk trot in the doctor’s smart little pony and trap into the countryside beyond, the landscape itself began to lift, much like Holmes’ spirits, into a series of mountain slopes, rising one behind the other, across which the sun chased the cloud shadows in a game of hide-and-seek.

At first, all three of us were silent, Holmes and I in contemplation of the view, while Dr Parry, I surmised, was turning over in his mind the circumstances that had brought the two of us to this location and how he was to broach so tragic and personal a subject to a pair of strangers.

It was Holmes who broke the silence.

‘Tell me, Dr Parry, about the murder of Dai Morgan,’
he said in a down-to-earth but kindly tone of voice. ‘I gather from your letter that he was a local farmer, well respected in the community, and that his son—’

The remark seemed to act as a stimulus to the little doctor. The words gushed out of him in a torrent made more excitable by the rise and fall of his Welsh accent.

‘Hywel had nothing to do with his death, Mr Holmes! He’s a good lad who wouldn’t harm a fly, let alone his own dada. Inspector Rees has got it all wrong! He’s a townee, see, from Abergavenny. He doesn’t understand us hill people. We’re like foreigners to him!’

‘So Inspector Rees is in charge of the investigation,’ Holmes remarked evenly. ‘What is his opinion? Does he think it is a case of murder rather than suicide or a terrible accident?’

My old friend’s down-to-earth attitude had its desired effect on Dr Parry for, with an apologetic sideways glance at Holmes, he replied in a more temperate manner.

‘Oh no, Mr Holmes, it was murder without a doubt. No man can stab himself twice in the heart either on purpose or by accident. And you must forgive me for taking on so. I’ve known Dai and Hywel Morgan for most of my adult life. They are like family to me. I’m certain Hywel is not guilty.’

‘You examined the body?’

‘I did indeed.’

‘How soon after the incident?’

‘Within the hour. Hywel came down to the village
from the farm as soon as he found Dai’s body in the barn. It was still warm when I examined it.’

‘When was this?’

‘The day before yesterday, at about half past nine.’

‘And the body was where?’

‘In the barn, lying on its back on the floor.’

‘You said he had been stabbed twice in the heart?’

Dr Parry looked a little abashed.

‘To be honest, it was only once directly in the heart. The other wound was in the chest a little to the left of the heart.’

‘I see. Any sign of a weapon nearby?’

‘No, and nowhere else in the barn either. I had a good look round myself, as did Inspector Rees and a constable who came with him. There was nothing that any of us could see that could have caused those injuries. They were very strange, those wounds, unlike anything I have ever seen before.’

‘Strange? In what way?’

‘Whatever caused them was a narrow blade, more like a rapier than a knife, and they were about six inches apart. The entry was downward and curving—’

‘Curving?’ Holmes broke in sharply. ‘Are you sure, Dr Parry?’

‘I would stake my life on it. I used a probe to follow the thrust of the injuries. Whoever killed him must have stood in front of him and plunged the weapon twice into his chest with sufficient force to knock Dai backwards
off his feet on to the floor of the barn, so it was someone of more-than-usual strength. Dai wasn’t a big man but he was strong. He was used to lugging sheep about, see, or holding them down when he was shearing them. So the muscles in his arms and chest were well developed.’

‘Very interesting!’ Holmes remarked musingly. ‘Would it be possible for Dr Watson and myself to inspect the scene of the crime?’

Dr Parry gave us a conspiratorial sideways glance.

‘It could be arranged. The barn’s all locked up but I know where to find the spare key to the padlock on the door. The police have gone, so you would have the place to yourselves. But you’ll have to keep mum about it. If Inspector Rees found out I had let you in, he’d make a proper fuss. Officious he is, see – likes to be in charge.’

‘When could we see it?’ Holmes asked eagerly.

‘Now, if you wish. I’ve arranged for you and Dr Watson to stay in the village inn, Y Delyn Aur, “The Golden Harp” in English. I would offer to put you up at my house but my wife’s an invalid and I think you’d be better off at the inn; as my guests, of course. It’s a comfortable little place and Emrys Jenkins, the landlord, speaks English. You could come and go as you wish and you might pick up some of the local gossip from Emrys. We could drop off your luggage there and then go on to Plas Y Coed.’

‘Plas Y Coed?’ Holmes inquired. It was obvious from the tone of his voice that he was fascinated by the Welsh
names and, aware of this, Dr Parry was delighted to translate them.

‘The House of Trees,’ he explained. ‘Dai Morgan’s farm. It’s about a mile outside the village.’

‘Which I gather from your letter is Pentre Mawr, is it not?’

‘Indeed it is, Mr Holmes. It means “The Big Village” and the name of the hill near to the farm is Bryn Mawr, Bryn meaning “hill” …’

‘And Mawr therefore meaning “big”,’ Holmes said, completing the sentence for him.

The little doctor laughed out loud, clearly enjoying this linguistic game as much as Holmes himself, and I, too, was delighted at Holmes’ change of mood from his earlier low spirits to this more cheerful frame of mind.

Despite its name, Pentre Mawr seemed a small enough place to me, a collection of stone and brick cottages and houses clustered along a pair of interconnecting country roads barely wide enough to allow two vehicles to pass side by side. Its central crossroads were dominated by its most impressive features: a chapel of dark-red brick with a steep gable end and pointed, Gothic-style windows, and the village inn of whitewashed stone, sporting a hanging sign of a golden harp against a bright-red background.

Here the pony and trap was drawn to a halt and Dr Parry, having secured the reins to a convenient post, carried our bags into the inn, emerging shortly afterwards to resume his seat in the trap. We then set off once more
in the direction of the mountains that loomed over the village like the curtain wall of some ancient fortress.

Below it were fields dotted with the pale shapes of grazing sheep moving slowly across the pasture, with here and there an isolated farmhouse of stone and slate crouching low to the ground as if cowering from the scrutiny of unseen enemies lying in wait up there among the crags.

After about a mile, we came to one of these farmhouses set back a little way from the road and surrounded by trees. As we turned in at the gateway, I heard Holmes murmur beneath his breath, ‘Ah, Plas Y Coed!’, a remark which Dr Parry immediately translated into English.

‘The House of Trees. Indeed, Mr Holmes, you are an excellent scholar. We’ll make a Welshman of you yet!’

The pony, which had slowed to a walk, proceeded down a short drive to the house itself. It was a plain building of stone with a low, slated roof that gave it a top-heavy appearance, and it faced a cobbled farmyard that was surrounded on two sides by outbuildings, the largest of which appeared to be a barn.

As soon as the pony halted, Dr Parry jumped down and, having secured the reins, produced a large door key from his pocket, explaining over his shoulder, ‘Hywel has given me this in case of need. I shan’t be more than a few moments, gentlemen, fetching the key to the barn, and then you can examine the place were Dai Morgan was murdered at your leisure.’

He was as good as his word and a few moments later was unlocking the double doors to the large stone building which faced the house and which put me in mind of drawings I had seen of Saxon churches. It had the same simple architecture, the interior open and uncluttered, the floor paved with large, uneven stone slabs and the roof supported on a structure of ancient beams, held together by larger cross braces. Old cobwebs hung down from these beams like the tattered banners of some
long-ago
battle. At the far end was an open-fronted loft, the ladder that would have given access to it lying on the floor amongst a scattering of hay. The sweet scent of the hay pervaded the whole interior and the air was filled with a cloud of glittering dust mites caught like fireflies in the shafts of sunlight from the arched window set in the rear wall.

Dr Parry was pointing to an area of the floor a little distance from the hayloft.